


Your Move

by LadyLaela (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LadyLaela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wish you could bury her, but you know you can't spare the time, the energy; you need to get John to safety. John cries only quietly this time, and you know before he tells you that he doesn't blame you at all. He tells you that she forgives you too. You know she does.</p><p>You just wish you could forgive yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Move

Your name is Dave Strider, and you've got a shotgun in your hand.

“D-Dave, no... please, you c-can't...” John's sobbing untrollably, but Rose just sits there straightbacked and stoic. You ignore him, and he grabs at your arm, tugging desperately at your sleeve. “Dave! Dave, it's J-Jade, you c-can't do this, she's our best friend...” he breaks off into rough sobs, his words made unintelligible. You brush him off, a little more violently then you meant to, your lips a thin, tight line and you know you must be virgin-snow white under your freckles.

Not like that dirty whore was a virgin, living in sin with seven men like that.

Fuck, you aren't funny.

“Dave, no!” It's a high whine that's almost a scream, but you tighten your hand on the gun's grip. He makes one last grab at you, and it's then you lose your temper.

“It ain't her any more, you idiot!” If he wasn't in the backseat of the car you probably would have punched him. You wrench open the driver's side door and jump out, white-knuckled on your shotgun, ignoring John's continued pleas. You're numb, your heartbeat deafening you, your lips bloodless with the pressure required to maintain your pokerface. You hop the hood, though your legs feel like useless stumps even when you're walking, you throw open the passenger door. John is weeping, and some dim part of you hears Rose tell him you're right, it has to be done, you're doing what you have to do.

It is no comfort.

You gather Jade's limp body into your arms, her flesh all blackened where she was bit, veins dark and visible under her skin. She's starting to foam at the mouth and she looks all bruised up around her eyes, her nose. She's too light, you all are, lost so much weight cause you've been giving out the bare minimum of rations; but goddammit it's _necessary_. Just as necessary as this and oh god she looks so vulnerable in your arms, her head lolls against your shoulder and you hate yourself, you hate yourself so goddamn much for what you have to do.

You prop her up against a rock, setting her down oh so gently even though you know she can't feel it any more, even though you know she's not there. You step back, and you hate to admit it but it's so you don't get her on you when you blow her head off. You swallow and your throat clicks, you see Rose watching you in the rear view mirror out of the corner of your eye. Your arm hardly shakes as you raise the gun, as you ignore the bile in your throat and level the barrel.

The single report of your gun cuts through the silence.

When you return to the car, it's with the image of what was left of her burned in your mind. You're even paler and stiffer, your lips are just as tight, you say not a word of explanation and you make no attempt to comfort the crying mess that is John in the back. They don't need to know you had to take a minute to puke after you did it. You did what you needed to do, and you want them to think that you were strong enough.

What you needed to do.

She would have come back, and when she did she would have bit you or Rose or god fucking forbid, John. You shift into gear, turn the key; the engine roars to life.

“Strider, I can drive...”

You put your foot on the gas, not responding, not caring. That night you divy up the rations like you always do, and fuck why did you make four portions. You can't bear to watch Rose re-bandage her own bite, hate yourself for glancing at it to see if the edges were blackening. Hate even more that she catches your eye, gives you a look that tells you she knows that you'll have a gun to her head next; that she knows it'll be necessary, that she already forgives it of you.

It's impossible to eat your share, but you force it down. You can't let them know how sick you feel, they can't see your weakness. You have to be alright. You have to look after them.

Contrary to what you expected, John tugs your hand when you say it's time to rest. His face is red and tearstained, his eyes swollen. You expected him to make you sleep in the front of the car with Rose, you expected him to be disgusted with you, but he just wraps his arms around your neck when you lay down; just curls into you. You know he wants comfort, but don't have any idea how to give it.

As the days pass, you watch Rose. You scavenge for food, tearing back to the car with as much as you can carry and the undead on your heels. John doctors your scratches, usually, and sniffles and bites his lip when he sees the blood. When it's anything worse, Rose has to patch you up. John just can't stand to. You're running out of medical supplies, and something's wrong with Rose.

It's not the G-virus that you watched Jade come down with. It's something more real, something more old and human. She's not turning into a zombie, she's getting paler and sicker and weaker. There's only so weak someone can get before they just get dead.

You give her all the medicine that you think might help, but slowly she fades away. John cries about it into your chest at night, and you know he wants you to do something; to save her.

You can't.

There's absolutely nothing you can do.

Up until the end, you take turns dribbling water between her slack lips. She is no longer concious, and you know you've hit the point of no return. Honestly, you hit it a while back, but now there is nothing you can do but admit it. Rose is gone, and you wish you believe there's nothing you could have done for her.

You wish you could bury her, but you know you can't spare the time, the energy; you need to get John to safety. John cries only quietly this time, and you know before he tells you that he doesn't blame you at all. He tells you that she forgives you too. You know she does.

You just wish you could forgive yourself.

It seems like it takes a hundred years, but you're so close now. Only a few more days, nothing outside a week, and the two of you will be safe.

Then John insists on going with you to find food. He tells you he's too scared to stay in the car, that he sits there and worries you won't come back. You know it's been hard on him. You know how heavy the girls' deaths weigh on him, you know he doesn't have the ability to close off, to shut down and get shit done like you do. You know he's scared and as much as you hate the choice, you take him with you. You're not fast enough, not good enough to protect him, too stupid to realize how much faster you run. He's grabbed before you can stop it, he calls your name and you turn and look into his terrified eyes, raise your gun, level it on the zombie clinging to him and pull the trigger. You're met with only the click of an empty barrel. You go cold deep down inside, you're struggling to reload while he screams your name.

It's then that he gets bitten.

You bandage the wound numbly. He looks less scared than he does resigned, but he still shakes and his hand is so tight around your bicep that it's like he thinks you'll go all helium on him and float off. You kiss his head, and it's a more tender action than he's gotten from you since this all began with those news bulletins months ago. You whisper that he won't die, that you'll look after him; but he just looks up at you in a way that says he knows you'll shoot him if you need to, and that he's okay with that.

It makes you feel worse. You wish it wasn't true.

There's very little food left. There's been almost no rest either, and John's looking worse and worse. You can't tell if it's the virus or just an illness like Rose had, but it hardly matters because you're out of medicine. There's nothing you can give him at all, so you just keep driving as he squirms and mutters to himself in his fevered delirium.

He's given up on sitting, his seatbelt undone and he's slumped over your lap as your foot's ever on the gas.

“... love you,” he mumbles, and you can only hope he's talking to you. Then his hand slides limply to hang down by your feet, and you have to pull over. His weight is too dead on your lap, he's too hot, he's not making those little sounds any more. You check his pulse with trembling fingers, a little reel playing in your head that says only _please don't leave me_. Your chest is so tight that you swear your own heart will stop.

He's still there, somewhere, barely. His pulse is weak on your hand, you can only feel it if you push your fingers deep into his neck; and his breath is soft and quiet. You glance up at the odometer, and all you can think is _three hundred miles to the next city_.

If you make it, you can find him medicine. Make him get better like Rose did. Yeah, he'll get better, and you'll get him to the safe haven; and maybe the girls are dead but you two will still be there, be together and fuck that has to count for something.

You just have to make it.

But you feel yourself failing too, sick and weak from so little sleep and hell if you're stopping to rest a fucking minute now, racing the clock and you've always thought time was on your side but fuck you really don't feel so hot. Two hundred miles. You're driving as fast as you can, hardly worried any more about going easy on this stupid fucking car, not even thinking about it. You're going to make it, you have to make it. The road is blurring in front of you. God, you're so tired. One hundred miles.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have nothing left.

All you see in your head is Jade's body, her brain matter sprayed on the rock behind her. You feel sick. Your sister's gone too, your boyfriend dying on your lap. You couldn't save the girls.

You have to save him.

Seventy miles.

It's a struggle to keep the car on the road. You haven't even stopped to check if John's still breathing, afraid that he won't be and it'll shatter the thin hope you have and then what point is there to continuing at all?

Sixty miles.

Everything lurches. Your vision is crumbling inwards at the edges, falling apart to black and shifting colors. You can't feel your body any more.

Your name is Dave Strider and you have failed.


End file.
